


Upon Still Waters

by nightbloomingcereus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Miracles, Noah's Ark, Noah's dove, Post-Canon, Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Walking on water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-02 18:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20811815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus
Summary: In Mesopotamia, in 3004 B.C., Aziraphale walks on water, and doubts.  In the South Downs, more than five millennia later, Crowley finally learns to walk on water, and to stop doubting.





	Upon Still Waters

**Mesopotamia, 3004 B.C.**

The angel walked on water. 

Crowley perched on top of the Ark and watched as Aziraphale materialized mid-air, with a gentle, shimmering disturbance of the atmosphere and a soft whoosh of feathers. He hovered just above the surface of the water, wings outstretched and glowing a little against the dim, rain-lashed sky. 

The rains had lessened somewhat in the past week but were still falling steadily. So too, the sky had grown perhaps a fraction of a shade lighter, but remained resolutely grey and heavy with clouds. As far as he could tell, the two of them were the only visible living things under that endless storm-pressed sky. Beneath Crowley's feet, the Ark was a dark, heavy fortress drifting aimlessly through a drowned world, its pitch-smeared wooden walls built thick and nearly windowless in order to better withstand the rains. What openings there were, high and narrow and barely deserving of being called windows, were covered with heavy shutters latched tight to keep out the wind and water. The trap door through which he had climbed to reach the top remained tightly shut behind him. The Ark was quite large for a sailing vessel, but it was by no means spacious, especially given the sheer number of living creatures packed aboard. It was cramped, odiferous, and chaotic: a little too much like Hell for his liking, right down to the persistent dampness and the lack of natural light, and yet he had stayed, telling himself that there had been nowhere else to go. He had, however, been spending more and more time outside, on top of the gently sloping roof of the Ark, where it was cold and noisy with the sounds of crashing waves, gusting winds, splattering raindrops, and the occasional thunderclap, but significantly devoid of the clamor and closeness of humans and animals. 

It was currently mid-morning, although he only knew this because the lone rooster had crowed several hours earlier, still stubbornly refusing to believe that there was no sun, not in the cramped Ark nor in the closed sky above it. Even given that he'd been atop the Ark many mornings of late, however, it was still strange that he'd happened to be looking at exactly the right spot of nondescript ocean to witness Aziraphale making his appearance. He could not have said whether it was mere coincidence or something more, some inexplicable instinct. 

Regardless, now that he had seen, he could not tear his eyes away. He'd last seen Aziraphale, looking very human and very alone, amongst the throngs of people left behind and not yet entirely aware of their doom, as Noah heaved the sturdy wooden doors of the Ark closed, the rains already beginning to fall in earnest. Now, Aziraphale's wings curved in two spreading white arches, high and glorious and breathtaking even from a distance. The waters below them, shielded from the spatter of raindrops, lay becalmed and reflective. Crowley still remembered what it felt like to be sheltered under the canopy of one of those great wings, as the first rain fell and the gates of Eden clanged shut. This rain was different, cold and relentless, drumming day and night on the wooden roof of the Ark. There was no courageous Adam in the distance wielding an angel's flaming sword, no defiant Eve fighting to stay alive for her own sake and that of her unborn child, no new world to discover. No, here it was just a storm that never ended, a world turned to water, and a demon standing alone with no angel's wing to protect him on top of an Ark bobbing in a vast and endless sea. 

Aziraphale shook out his great wings, scattering a fine mist of water droplets every which way, and then folded them in a single, smooth, complex motion and put them away. They popped out of existence, their ethereal light fading with them, and then there he was, an angel dropping gently on his own two feet onto the surface of the sea, rain flattening his white-gold curls to his forehead. Beneath his feet, in a tight circle, the water remained glassy and tranquil; raindrops fell but never seemed to strike the surface. Roiling, angry waves stilled abruptly and reformed on the other side of the circle as if they'd simply passed through another dimension on the way. His robes were a bright white against the gloomy drabness of the sky and the sea. He started to walk, a slow trudge, toward the single spot of land that had appeared the previous day, a tiny dark peak that was once a mountain top, some distance away from the Ark, near the limit of the horizon. 

Crowley did not understand why Aziraphale had chosen to walk; surely it would have been easier, and a good deal faster, to fly, even with the rain sheeting off his wings, and it was not as if there were any humans there to see and tremble with fear or reverence. Twice during his time on the Ark, Crowley had snuck onto the roof under cover of darkness, released his own wings, and flown low over the surface of the water, although there had been nothing to see but an endless, monotonous expanse of turbulent water and low-hanging clouds. The rain had been mildly unpleasant, to be sure, but not unbearable, and nothing a small exertion of demonic power (or an angelic miracle) couldn't handle. To his dismay, flying had not had the exhilarating, spirit-lifting effect that it normally had, and he'd returned from both of his solitary flights feeling, if anything, even more antsy and dejected than he'd been before. 

The wind intensified, tossing a thick, wet strand of Crowley's hair into his face. Reaching up without thinking to push it away from his eyes, he was momentarily started by the redness, the _color _of it amongst all the grey. In the distance, Aziraphale paused, raised his head, and looked around him, eyes seeming to alight on the Ark and stopping there for several long moments. In the dim, storm-shaded light, Crowley could not tell whether the angel had seen him, in his human form, bright hair uncovered, atop the vessel; nor could he tell what expression, if any, Aziraphale's pale face wore. Cursing his lack of foresight, he used a small, insignificant bit of occult energy to enhance his vision. Aziraphale had already turned away, his attention back on the island. Crowley could, however, now see in sharp detail the folds of Aziraphale's white robe, which was miraculously dry, whipping around him in the gusty winds, while, in contrast, rainwater dripped from his sodden curls and ran down the back of his neck. He wondered why the angel didn't just extend the miracle a wee bit further; compared to walking on water, keeping one's hair dry seemed like a tiny, trivial thing.

Aziraphale had reached the diminutive spur of land, which was just large enough for a man or an angel to stand upon. A single, spindly tree grew there, a good deal of its roots exposed by erosion and forming a tangled latticework through which the waves surged in and out. Most of its leaves and a good deal of its branches and bark had been beaten away by the incessant water and wind so that it looked disconcertingly like it was made of colorless, weatherworn bone. Aziraphale reached into a crook between two of the remaining branches and withdrew something; at first, Crowley thought it was a handful of pale, soft feathers from the angel's own wing that lay unmoving in his cupped hands. Then he realized that it was not one, but two separate feathered things, both small, one light and one dark, nestled very still against each other. The white was soft and downy, the black sleek and smooth. Aziraphale bent his head and blew a gentle puff of breath over them; they stirred and stretched out two pairs of wings. For a moment the birds remained intertwined in his palms like a single creature, dark feathers interspersed with light, the breast of one pressed close against the other, before they both took flight simultaneously, in opposite directions.

The raven flew toward the horizon, wheeling back once and hovering in front of Aziraphale momentarily, and then disappeared behind a low, dark cloud. The dove winged its way straight toward the Ark, and flew in a circle around it. Crowley could see that it held a single, slender olive leaf in its beak; the green was stark against the white feathers and the monochrome seascape. It disappeared beneath the overhang of the sloping roof upon which Crowley stood, and set to tapping with its beak at the shutters covering one of the narrow window-slits; the rhythmic patter was audible above the sounds of water and wind, as was the creak of water-swollen wooden hinges groaning open several minutes later. 

Crowley's attention, however, stayed largely focused on Aziraphale, who remained standing on that tiny spur of land, in profile, head bowed, for some time. Eventually he began to walk away, in the opposite direction from whence he had come, his feet leaving no mark on the surface of the water. Crowley watched until he disappeared out of sight, dropping below the line of the horizon, the whiteness of his robes and hair fading into the grey fog. It was cold atop the Ark, and the winds had picked up in earnest. Cold water dripped down his neck; his hair was wet from the rain and he shivered as the wind lifted it and blew cold against his neck. 

By the time he returned inside, slipping back unnoticed into the stuffy, close warmth, in his chosen disguise as a small red and black snake[1], the Ark was abustle with preparations. Noah's dove had returned, and it had brought a sweet-smelling olive leaf, evidence that the waters were receding and proof to the faithful that God had kept her word. The world, they said, was cleansed and purified and theirs for the taking. 

Crowley wondered how many drowned, bloated bodies they would find when they set foot on land again.

*** 

"All those people, drowned. Children. And where were we all? Hiding back in heaven, faces turned away from the suffering. Nobody here to bear witness. Nobody except for a demon." 

_Bearing witness, _Crowley thought. Was that what he had been doing? Crowded into the dark, stuffy Ark amid the barnyard stink of a thousand living creatures, wondering whether he'd ever see the stars again? Standing in the rain and wind and watching an angel walk on water? Sitting here and listening to the same angel expressing his anguish and doubt? Bearing witness, then. And for whom?

They sat side by side against a boulder on Ararat, watching the animals and people spilling out of the Ark, wandering off in all directions, stir-crazy and free. Two by two, except for one unicorn and one raven. Noah and his family had long since stopped trying to keep track of the madness and were instead sitting on a muddy hillside enjoying the sun and fresh air. One of them held a long scroll on which he was ostensibly checking off each pair of animals as they exited the Ark, but he was clearly demonstrating a disregard for the paperwork that Dagon for one would never have stood for. Overhead glinted the first rays of sunlight that anyone had seen for many weeks[2], and below them was solid ground, scourged and reshaped. 

Aziraphale sounded tired, and defeated, when he repeated, "Not a single angel to bear witness. It would have been the least we could have done. Perhaps it was all part of the Great Plan, but even still. They should not have had to suffer like that and then be forgotten." He looked curiously at Crowley. "Why _were_ you there, anyway?" 

Crowley looked back at him, golden eyes into stormy blue. He did not know what to say; he did not himself fully understand why he'd stayed. Finally he said, feigning indifference, "All those people crowded into a small space for forty days. Positively ripe for temptation." 

"They recalled all of us to Heaven. There was nowhere left for birds or angels to roost. And everyone was just _there_, like nothing was even happening, with their staff meetings and their paperwork and their bloody celestial choirs. It was all just business as usual. Nobody was even thinking about what was going on down here. Not even when the souls started pouring in. You would have thought they'd all be going downstairs, to your lot, if what they'd told us was true. Sinners, the lot of them, they said. But we couldn't have all those souls going to swell the ranks of Hell, could we? Had to even the score."

His voice was flat and listless. Crowley suddenly remembered Aziraphale saying, "I gave it away," on the walls of Eden, sounding a little shamefaced but still defiant, uncertain but still hopeful. _This _voice was different, and so much worse: bitter, and doubtful, and terribly lost. He wanted, suddenly and unexpectedly, to offer some kind of comfort: a sheltering wing, an embrace, a miracle. It was a foreign and somewhat discomfiting feeling, sitting strangely in his chest, and he did not know how to act upon it. In any case, he thought the angel would not welcome any such gestures from a demon, his hereditary enemy. 

"You're here now, angel." 

"I just _left._ I couldn't stand being up there for one moment longer. I had to see what was going on. I had to try to help."

"You defied orders?" asked Crowley, raising an eyebrow. _The birds, _he realized. It was the flaming sword all over again, if admittedly somewhat less ostentatious. 

"Nobody told us we couldn't come back to Earth! It was just that nobody seemed to _want _to. They were all pretending that this … this mess… just didn't exist. And that was the worst part. Nobody _cares_, Crawly."

He startled a little when he heard that name come out of Aziraphale's mouth. It sounded wrong; Crawly was a name that he had been _given_, not the one he had _chosen._ He didn't even really know who had given it to him after he'd forgotten his original, celestial name; Lucifer, he assumed, naming everything and everyone in his dominion, claiming them as his own. The name had felt like an ill-fitting garment, itchy and irritating, almost from the moment he had acquired it, and that feeling had only intensified in the years since. _Crawly _was a creature slithering in the sand and obeying orders; _Crowley _was a demon who had once been an angel who had asked too many questions, and was still asking those questions. Naming himself had felt like recovering just the smallest bit of himself from before the fall. He hadn't thought of himself by his old name for decades now, but of course Aziraphale didn't know that. They hadn't even seen each other for more than a century, and, in any case, it wasn't really the kind of thing that came up in conversation with one's greatest adversary, was it? 

Aziraphale sighed heavily, leant his head back against the rock, and cast wide, glistening, pleading eyes up to the sky. Crowley was shocked at what a _human _gesture it was; they both knew that the concepts of the celestial vaults of heaven and the deepest pits of hell were approximations at best of a dimensional concept that human brains couldn't quite grasp. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. The sky above remained blue and inscrutable, no sign of the roiling clouds that had become so familiar of late. There had been the promised rainbow earlier, coldly beautiful and fleeting, but beauty, Crowley knew better than most, was a poor substitute for answers, or for love. 

Aziraphale laughed once, bitterly and without mirth, and said, a little hysterically, "All those children. And you were the only one who cared. _You_. A _demon_."

They didn't need to have heartbeats, or even hearts, in these corporations, but nevertheless Crowley could see a pulse jumping in the pale length of Aziraphale's throat. They were close enough to touch. He ached to press his lips to that fluttering, trembling pulse, to swallow it whole and keep it safe. He wasn't sure, however, whether it would have been a comfort or a temptation; he didn't know which he wanted it to be, or for whom. 

_For you, _he thought._ I will bear witness for you, angel. For you. With you. Together, the burden will be lighter for both of us. I would take it all upon myself if I could, to spare you the suffering. All of the terrible and heartbreaking and unaccountable things in this world._

He wanted, suddenly, to tell him about his name, but it seemed like a too-trivial thing in the face of Aziraphale's doubt and sorrow[3].

Instead, he said: "You care, angel. You care. I saw you out there, with the birds."

Two white doves emerged from the Ark and soared overhead, one of them sketching a sweeping, placid arc, the other, in which Crowley could still detect a tiny, remnant spark of Aziraphale's grace, flying back and forth in agitated swoops and dives. 

A tiny black dot appeared on the line of the horizon, growing steadily larger and closer. It cawed once, a harsh, sharp cry, dissonant and somehow beautiful. The second dove winged away from the Ark in a swift, straight line, meeting the raven in mid-air, and together they flew out of sight, two small and perfect creatures disappearing into the limitless expanse of the sky. 

_And all of the good things too._

*** 

**South Downs, England, 2019 A. D. **

Their house on the South Downs was situated some distance away from the village and a short walk down a gentle, winding path to the shore. It was full dark on a splendid, cloudless summer night, the moon low on the eastern horizon. They'd been sitting in the garden behind the cottage, surrounded by trailing jasmine vines and unseasonably early fruit-laden apple and pear trees, sharing a bottle of excellent Bordeaux. They were both just a little bit tipsy. 

"Shame you can't see the Milky Way from here," drawled Crowley, leaning back in his chair as far as he could and turning his face up to the night sky. He had long since abandoned his sunglasses on the table between them; there was no one else around, and there was no need for pretense between the two of them, not anymore. 

"A shame Indeed," agreed Aziraphale. "You reckon we could see it better from the beach?"

Crowley got to his feet languidly and held his hand out, felt the warm weight of Aziraphale's palm dropping into his. It was still a marvel to him that this gesture and a hundred others like it were such casual and comfortable intimacies for them now. Together they meandered slowly along the winding path, which was white and chalky against the darkness, down to the cove. It was quiet save for the soft, rhythmic splashing of waves at high tide and the occasional drawn-out hoot from a hunting owl. 

"Still too much light, I think," said Crowley, disappointed. He briefly considered snapping his fingers and engineering a temporary and inexplicable electrical blackout along this stretch of the southern coast, but it seemed unsporting somehow, and he was fairly certain Aziraphale would not approve. 

"It would be better from there," said Aziraphale, pointing toward a dark shape in the water some five hundred feet out from where they were standing. It was, Crowley knew, a miniscule tidal island, too small in fact to be counted among the "official" forty-three. He'd been out there before, in the daylight at low tide, walking from shore to the rocky island across a narrow sandbar, which was at the moment invisible under several feet or more of water.

"Can't, angel. It's high tide."

"Of course we can," said Aziraphale. "Adam may be human now, but _we're _still not." He took a few nonchalant steps toward the horizon to prove his point. Beneath his feet, the waves stilled into a glassy smoothness. Although the sea around him was placid, and very far from the turbulent, stormy oceans of the Flood, it was no less miraculous a sight than it had been the first time. His well-worn leather shoes remained resolutely dry. He turned to face Crowley, who stood on the shore just beyond the high-water mark. The moonlight shone palely on his blond curls and upturned face, and glistened darkly on the water he stood upon. 

"Maybe _you _can," said Crowley, a little tetchily. "You're an angel. Walking on water… it's kind of your lot's thing, innit? I'm a demon, or hadn't you forgotten? Probably sink like a stone." 

"Nonsense, darling. It's like any other miracle. You just have to believe." He held both hands out to Crowley, palms up. "You only have to trust. Come." 

Crowley took a few halting steps forward, into the surf. The salt water lapped at his shoes, swirled around his feet. He laid his palms against Aziraphale's outstretched ones and felt strong fingers wrap around them. Warmth coursed through him. The water beneath his feet calmed, formed itself into a clear, smooth plane around and beneath which the waves continued to ripple. 

He took one small, tentative step, gripping tightly to Aziraphale's hands, which were warm and solid. It felt a bit like walking on smooth marble after a rainstorm, just slippery enough that one had to be cognizant of the surface below one's feet. 

Aziraphale let go of his hands. The sea breeze was cool against his palms. He teetered a bit at the sudden absence of an anchor and looked down instinctively at his feet. Underneath the surface they were standing on, with its wobbly reflection of their two bodies against the night sky, he saw the movement of the water, swirling eddies and small bubbles. The twin frames of focus were disorienting, both of them tremulous and uncertain. He could easily discern the small dark stones, strings of kelp, and cracked fragments of shells that lay at the bottom, given that they were standing only perhaps a foot or two in from the water line. In front of him, the ocean stretched, vast and dark and fathomlessly deep. Who knew where the sea floor would drop off precipitously, or whether the oceans would rise and drown the world again? _A million-light-year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulphur_. He shuddered, doubted. He sank, toes first, water splashing over the tops of his shoes and soaking the hems of his trousers; ripples surged outward and broke less than a foot away around Aziraphale's still-calm circle. His heart, which he did not need to stay alive, drummed rapidly and erratically, and he could not stop it.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale. "Look at me, love." 

He felt a finger on his chin, tilting it upward. He looked up into Aziraphale's eyes, which were the color of stormy seas and fathomlessly deep; it was nothing at all like falling. His feet lifted of their own accord out of the water, settled flat once again atop the surface, and the ripples stilled. He took a small step forward, so that they were very close together, chest to chest. Aziraphale's arms came up to encircle him; he pressed a kiss, cool and gentle, against Crowley's neck, right where his heart fluttered like a bird in his throat. 

The angel and the demon walked on water. 

They walked hand in hand, poised between the darkness of the water spreading out below and the darkness of the sky stretching out above. Aziraphale walked with his usual proper, straight-postured stride. By the time they reached the island, Crowley's timid steps had become his normal saunter, his hips swinging and his whole body swaying. The water's surface felt like comfortably worn stone beneath his feet. He felt buoyant, elated: it turned out that even after six thousand years, there were still new and wondrous things for jaded old serpents to learn. 

The island at high tide was not much more than a bit of rocky shore scattered with shells and kelp, with a small, gently sloping dune in the center covered with scrubby, low-lying foliage. They walked halfway around its perimeter, an exercise that took five minutes at the most, and came to a stop on the far side, facing toward the open ocean and away from the lights of the shore. The moon had set, slipping unnoticed below the horizon, and the stars were bright and multitudinous. 

In Aziraphale's hand appeared a large wicker basket, a bit of light-colored tartan fabric peeking out from underneath the flaps on top. It looked, in fact, rather disturbingly like the basket Crowley had been handed twelve years ago containing the infant Antichrist. He thought about this for a moment, then concluded that he was fine with the resemblance, the whole situation with Adam and Warlock having come out for the best after all. 

The basket turned out to contain a bottle of excellent tawny port, two fine crystal glasses, and two generous slices of cake[4] miraculously arranged on delicate china plates with polished silver forks in a pattern that he recognized as the one used at the Ritz. There was also a tartan blanket in the colors of the sand and sea, woven of a heavy wool, with tassels. The shore here could hardly be called a beach, and was little more than a narrow strip of land littered with small rocks and broken shells, the detritus of past storms. Nevertheless, they spread out the blanket, which was miraculously soft and padded, just beyond the reach of the tide; they sat side by side and looked at the dark line of the horizon, where the sky met the water. 

"Thank you," said Aziraphale quietly.

"Whatever for? You're the one who just taught me to walk on water." 

"For being there, for all the worst times in all the ages of the world. The Flood. The Crucifixion. The French Revolution. World War Two. The Apocalypse that Never Was. You were always there. When no one else was." 

"Had to keep you out of trouble, didn't I, angel? For the sake of the Arrangement."

"Oh, hush, darling. I know what you were really doing. Saving me. Sharing my burdens. Keeping me from sinking. I don't know how you always knew when I needed you, but I'm glad you did."

Crowley set down his wineglass, took Aziraphale's hand in his, and pressed a kiss against his knuckles, another one against the pulse point at his wrist. His skin was warm and tasted faintly of salt. 

"I'll always be there for you, angel," he whispered into Aziraphale's palm. Aziraphale caressed his cheek, and leant in to kiss him. 

Above them, the Milky Way arched in a great slash across the sky, spilling thousands of stars into the night, each one a bright pinprick of light doubled by reflection in the waters below. The old myth that heaven was a celestial vault spread out in the sky overhead still persisted in many human circles, but now Crowley thought that there might be something better and infinitely more precious than heaven after all, in the vast sky above them and the world around them and the exquisite creature beside him. Behind them, on the shore, was the home they had built together, containing a little bit of heaven, a little bit of hell, and everything of the world. 

Aziraphale tipped his head back to look at the stars, and Crowley looked at Aziraphale. His neck was pale and smooth in the starlight, and a pulse beat steadily at his throat. Crowley pressed his lips to that pulse, and it was both a temptation and a comfort, exactly as it should have been.

* * *

[1]As the total number of animals on board was correct, Noah and his family had apparently never noticed (or perhaps just didn’t care) that there was only one unicorn and an extra snake. [return to text ]

[2]Aziraphale, as has already been established, had spent much of that time in Heaven, where the light was very bright and very white, and not at all golden or warm like the sun. [return to text]

[3]When he _did _finally tell Aziraphale, it was again in the face of doubt and sorrow, upon the plains of Golgotha. But he had become somewhat more self-aware in the three millennia since, and understood at the very least that Aziraphale would never discount such a revelation as trivial, no matter what the circumstances. And, frankly, three thousand years was a long time to have to hear someone you loved call you by a name you hated.[return to text]

[4]both of which were eventually eaten by Aziraphale.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> The title and inspiration for this fic came from [ Upon Still Waters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quX4goe4G3s) by the Cowboy Junkies, which is an extremely Aziraphale/Crowley song. 
> 
> I never would have thought that I'd write a Noah's Ark fic, and yet, here we are. It was the scene that made the most sense for the "walking on water" concept so I just went with it. 
> 
> Did I make Crowley change his name and then not tell Aziraphale for three thousand years just because I didn't want to call him Crawly for the whole first half of this fic? Why, yes. Yes, I absolutely did. But then Neil Gaiman posted [this](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/187985114561/is-there-any-particular-reason-why-crowley-does) on tumblr, and now I feel validated.


End file.
